


Much Honour, Very Penis

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos Wants to Have Everyone's Cake and Eat it, Athos Wants to Have Everyone's Cake and Spank It, Athos Wants to Have his Cake and Eat It, Blue Balls, Comte de la Blue Balls, F/M, Grumpy Cat is a Dirty Fucker, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6728221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He likes it cheap. He likes it female. He likes it sweet. He likes it male. Based on the assumption that those are d'Artagnan's breeches Milady changes into, and Athos gets ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Much Honour, Very Penis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibliolatress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatress/gifts).



> I have neither explanation nor excuse for this, except to say that a sexy, sexy debt has now been paid. Post 2x06.

The promise of sleep seemed…promising. It may even have seemed downright delightful, but Athos was far too drunk to care. ‘Soused’ would’ve been his word of choice, had he retained the ability to form words. ‘Pickled’. The narrow staircase was narrower, the walls pressing in, the palms of his fumbling hands finding temporary purchase on rough patches of plaster and the crumbling business going on in-between stones. The dark swelled to a crescendo around his head, specifically his head, his head specifically, leading in the night, blocking out the light.

He went face-first into the mattress, clipping his chin on the bedframe’s low edge. A growl sounded from the pile of humped up face-sheltering blankets.

One boot struggled valiantly, but ultimately failed, to remove itself.

He never can tell, with Anne, whether it’s uncertainty or superiority which makes her look the way she does – at him, occasionally through him, even more occasionally _into_ him to draw up from the depths things he’d rather not remember. She looked like that as he helped her onto her horse, and she looked at him, not through him, and one small confirmatory look is not enough to undo however many years of looks, but she’s looked at him before while looking like a boy, and the look of her that way is enough to give him trouble.

Her arse in particular.

As they’re probably legally still married, he has leave to dream about her arse.

Her arse in d’Artagnan’s breeches, moulded to an absurdly graphic degree before she went and put on the doublet, which is his, which she knows, so she’s all but consented to letting him get the scent of her sweat from the leather. He’s a good horseman, and the best way to get acquainted with a horse is through the scent of its sweat; she takes half the care and rides just as well, and if her back didn’t prickle to wrap him around her like that and smell the spill of wine and wretchedness on the leather, why, she’s a liar. The perfume she wears to delight the King had faded away by the time it was over, but he likes her cheap. He’ll never tell that he likes her dirty, with crusted mud clogging up her sharp little fingernails, with her arched back driving a furrow in the ground.

He’ll never tell that fucking her in a linen shirt and drooping boots, slipping sideways down her thighs, was it. Burying his nose in her sex and huffing dirty, earthy, musky like a rutting animal was it, de-sexed somehow, over-sexed, the boy shape in his arms making girl noises as he ate her from the inside out.

That was it, the memory of the ripe loveliness of her arse thumping the ground, grinding his face into her, grinding them both to dust. A handprint on her cheek to match the handprint on his cheek, the blue bruises his teeth left in pampered, pink skin.

And then, of course, there’s d’Artagnan.

The black-haired boy shouting his name had aroused him beyond reason that first day. In his face, inches from his face, face-to-face, with that same black-haired boy refusing to admit he was beaten. He got hungry after that, for knowledge, for skill, to sit beside his ‘brother’ and watch him go deep into his cups and rise up a day later as if nothing had happened. Athos always erases in the morning the night that came before – but a night with d’Artagnan, that would be different: chest swelling, veins standing out in his neck and arms.

His arse in particular.

They’ve shared the warm, supple space of leather breeches, his two worst habits. There’s a warm, supple space somewhere within d’Artagnan for the taking, somewhere that would make him screech, something he’s never considered might make him make a mess of himself all over himself, all over Constance Bonacieux’s bedsheets. He’s learnt to take the bit, he could learn to take the whip. He’s learnt to do as he’s told, he can learn to do what he’s ordered. Sit. Stand. Beg, puppy. They could have that, Athos could have those insolent, pretty lips, the man could have the boy and make the boy gag for him, bleed for him, plead for him to do it again. Athos could fuck d’Artagnan blind, and all-seeing, and all-amenable, through Heaven and past sweetness, whimpering into the pillow, filling his mouth with feathers or leather or cock.

Or he could have both.

She would’ve lain underneath him, Paris under Gascony, sighed and let him do anything to her. He would’ve done it clumsily, Anne, d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan on top of Anne with her clever tongue halfway down his callow throat. She would’ve let him stroke her, pet her, please her so soft and so shallow that craving was barely brushed with fulfilment. He would’ve come apart in and on her much too soon, left a trail of sticky longing along her thigh that wanted to be licked off by someone who understands them both better than they themselves do.

Athos, to be precise.

He could lie between them and take one and then the other, and then both, and watch one swallow the other’s yell with a kiss which goes on forever. He could love them both, woman and boy, and hurt them both, her green eyes and his black hair and Athos, surrounded, lost to decency and to the whole world. Buttocks peachy and female, splitting just there so he can curl his fingers into fruit and get juice. Buttocks muscular and male, a challenge, a quiver for an arrow which hits the target with a low, filthy smack of flesh on flesh, bone on bone.

He can dream.

“All –” For sleep had fluttered away from him like a flock of morning birds departing unexpectedly at midnight. They would be as confused as he is by twin desires, he thinks groggily, for the moon, for the sun. “For a pair of breeches.”


End file.
